The Music Box
by Bishou no Marina
Summary: (*Companion to A Perfect World*) As Keeper of the Music Box, Logan holds the fate of dormant Heroes like himself in his hands. His own awakening, should he choose it, will start a chain reaction across the land; once begun, it cannot be stopped. As a King, he was a failure. But his sister's faith in him remains, and with it, this charge: to rebuild a world, one life at a time.
1. Grave

_Generally, novellas aren't separated into chapters. Though they are usually shorter than novels, novellas are novellas because of the scope of their content rather than their length. My understanding is that they tend to focus on a single character and his or her primary conflict, with few (if any) sub-plots and little to no changes in perspective. Each section of __this__ novella will be measured by its mood and speed—in essence, by its _tempo, _the way a composer might mark a musical piece. Therefore, based on the tempo named, you can mark the rising and falling of the action of the piece as it is performed for you here. Please enjoy _The Music Box_, Logan's side of the story, while reading about his sister in _A Perfect World_. _

* * *

_Grave (slowly, solemnly)_

* * *

If anyone in Driftwood ever noticed the man who lived alone on the edge of the bay, they never mentioned it. Driftwood was a new settlement, and it had been founded by vagabonds, refugees, criminals, gypsies—founded, in short, by people who believed in new beginnings. Driftwood was a place to disappear. There was more than enough space for everyone, and although a little gold had begun to trickle in from Outside, it wasn't yet enough to cause the Outside to intrude on Driftwood's _laissez-faire _way of life…and that was precisely how everyone preferred it. No one, as a rule, asked many questions when a man refused to join in the nightly bonfire parties or kept his windows closed even when the weather was fine. Freedom of choice was the only real law the community upheld. In Driftwood, people did not pry.

That suited ex-King Logan of Albion very well. Driftwood suited him well, and so did his caravan by the water.

The irony of this was not lost on him. A year ago, this cluster of islands had belonged to a particularly vicious tribe of Hobbes. Its first human settlers had begged his rebel sister for help after being evicted from their homes by Reaver, then a brutally efficient captain of industry with a reach as long and mysterious as his lifespan. They had not bothered to bring their problem to their King, because they knew, as Logan knew, that Reaver had acted perfectly within his rights, owning half of Millfields as he did. They had turned to Rose, instead…Rose, a runaway princess with a few supporters but no army at her back, no political clout, no permanent home of her own, even. And what had Rose done?

Logan closed his fingers over a small white blossom, then opened them. The flower sprang brightly back to its proper shape at once. There was no crushing it. Not this kind of rose.

Rose had found _the third alternative_, as she always did. She had been in no position to overthrow him yet, and she had no leverage against Reaver, either. But she had had a sword, a gun, and her Will, and that had been enough. The ground upon which he now sat had run red with Hobbe blood, and she had given it all to the displaced gypsies and gone her way without asking for a thing in return. She had even come back now and then to check on them, eventually braving the balverine-infested Silverpines—why anyone would choose to live in _there_, Logan could not fathom—in order to bring them the master carpenter they needed in order to engineer a thriving community. It was an alternative he would never have thought of, himself, and now it was his home.

Logan unfolded his sister's last letter and smoothed it over his desk. He had done this so many times now that the parchment lay flat and limp. He stared hard at the single word she had given him, the answer to his pleas for her to turn her back on him for the sake of the people, for the sake of a peaceful oblivion in which he might lose himself, at last.

_Never_.

This was one of the only things on which Rose's mind was absolutely immovable. There was no alternative, there.

_Never_.

The black, forbidding word became a thing of alarming beauty when she used it. It was so much more than ink on paper. It held hope, forgiveness, longing, acceptance, love… It was a promise. It held a future. All he had to do…was take it.

_This is my Albion._

The thought came to him like a whisper. For a moment, Logan froze, minute hairs standing up on the back of his neck, his nostrils flaring as if to catch the scent of a predator's spoor. A shadow fell over his mind. He did not want to think about this. He did not make a habit of revisiting closed matters, and he had no love for ghosts. But there it was—one of many specters he had never been able to exorcise: _My Albion. _And just at the moment, it demanded his attention, willing or not.

"Damn you, Rose…"

Logan stood abruptly and walked out of his caravan in long, swift strides, away from the undying rose, away from _never_, and the dangerous thoughts those things aroused in his mind. The sun was rising, and most of the inhabitants of Driftwood—of all of Albion, for that matter—had only just begun to sleep off the "White Night" (so the royal wedding had been dubbed, by someone who thought himself exceedingly clever). Like his sister, Logan did not indulge in alcohol, and today the dawn belonged to him alone. In fact, it seemed to him that its delicate sweeping pastels were lovelier than usual, as though for his special pleasure. Again came the treacherous thought: _My Albion… _He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, wishing, as he often had even as a young boy, that he could _stop thinking_, even for a moment. A moment of peace…was it so much to ask for, after all he had done?

Albion had been placed in his arms like a squalling newborn, a fresh kingdom still mourning its dead mother. In many ways, it _was_ an infant country. Thirty-odd years had tamed the land well enough, but the only people who had been raised to be proper _subjects_ were still children, themselves. The rest, for the most part, had been loyal to him out of gratitude and respect for his mother far more than any actual reverence for his station. There had _been_ no royalty in Albion since the days of the Old Kingdom. It was a foreign concept, and Logan had been saddled with the burden of educating a nation in political matters he only vaguely understood, himself.

But Logan was, if nothing else, a man of iron resolve. He had managed, and the secret of his success, short-lived though it was, was quite simple. Logan loved Albion. He had risen to become its guardian without reservations, without any regard for his own personal desires—none had ever really _occurred_ to him, now that he thought on it, beginning to pace toward the sand. His mother had given everything to protect Albion. He had grown up knowing this, and he had known no other way to live. When Queen Sparrow died, his father's joy in life had gone out like a snuffed candle. Logan had watched despair and loneliness take small bites of Prince Liam for the remainder of his life—the Slow Death, he often called it in the darker recesses of his mind—and he came to understand that to attach oneself to a _person_ was inevitably ruinous. People died. It was a fact of life. One could not, therefore, make a person the center of one's life. But life demanded a purpose, nevertheless, and something had to fill the void. Something that would not—_could_ not—die.

_My Albion._

The concept which would one day blacken and grow like a cancer inside him had been born in his heart as innocently as any decent feeling. He had chosen to devote his life to the care and keeping of Albion, because while its people could die and would die, Albion herself, as a whole, had every right and reason to endure long after Logan was dust in the ground.

He knelt and scooped up a handful of sand, brushing the precious grains between his fingers. They glittered like diamonds in the early morning light. _I would have died a thousand times to keep the Darkness from touching you._ He often wished that he had. A tyrant he had certainly been, but what the history books would likely fail to point out was that he had expected no more of his people than he had of himself. If his blood could have spared Albion, he would have spilled it with his own hand without a thought. It would have been so much easier than what duty _had_ demanded of him.

Logan had always believed that, as the son of a Queen, he had been born to live for something greater than himself. Now a new Queen was asking him to live for himself, and he almost hated her for it. He did not even know where to _begin_ living for himself. He did not know what he wanted, who he was, or what purpose he could possibly serve now that he was no longer _King_ Logan but simply Logan.

_This is my Albion_, he thought, standing once more, _and its cities will never bow to my law. Its mountains will not bend to my will. Its people will not do as I say. Its future will not be as I decree. _

There had to be another way. He needed a third alternative.

_Where is your resolve, now? _he asked himself bitterly. In another place, in another life, he had stood before his country in raised relief and nearly felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. _I have seen what must be done, and nothing will stand in my way, _he had said then, never suspecting that his task had already been given to another, that he was redundant and useless because he was not a Hero. He had meant all that he had said, but he had never gotten the chance to prove his devotion before his Albion had been taken from him.

"But I would have…"

_You can_, his sister's voice seemed to whisper in his head. He could almost hear the smile in her voice, and he was suddenly reminded of what she had told him the day she had given him the Music Box: _There is so much more to you than you know, Logan. Albion is alive. It is your Albion, as long as you wish it to be. No one can take that from you. Not even me._

And there it was. His third alternative.

"I will be greater," he said quietly. Rose was not there, not truly, but his vow was no less binding. "And I will be stronger, no matter what sacrifices I must make."

The Music Box had held death for his aunt, disaster for his mother, and pain for his sister. What it held for him, he still did not know. Rose believed that it would unlock his Heroic potential, awakening his dormant blood. Logan questioned the wisdom in this, given his monstrous actions in the past, but his sister's faith in him was unshakable. He frowned. The girl was in the habit of loving monsters; she had married _Reaver_, of all men.

_Enough._

She trusted him, and if he was truly to live, he knew would have to do more than simply accept whatever might enter his life—he would have to rise to meet it. He was decided.

_This is my Albion, _he told himself firmly, gazing out over the water, where the Tattered Spire rose like a black spike in the distance. It sent a chill of foreboding down his spine. _And I will see myself destroyed before I surrender it. _


	2. Molto Subito

_Molto subito _(very suddenly)

* * *

**Author's Note: **This chapter is meant to coincide with A Perfect World, Chapter 7: "Unlife" \- Thank you so much for reading! It's great to be back, and I'm so grateful to everyone for supporting me with the messages and reviews you write. It means so much to me. I'll never be able to thank you enough for your time and care.

I'd like to especially thank Angelacm for her priceless friendship and encouragement, and for her own wonderful, inspiring works. Without her, there is no story to tell.

* * *

Logan finally fell asleep a little before noon, when the sun was high in the sky. He was accustomed to going days without sleep, but it was now the hottest part of the day, and the heat made him drowsy. The soft, rhythmic rushing of the water on the shore was something he had missed very much during his stay at the castle. He had time to be surprised by how glad he was to be back before the heat and the waves gave him over to sleep. He lay sprawled diagonally across his bed because he was _just_ tall enough that his feet hung off the edge when he lay the proper way. That irritated him, because it reminded him of a childhood fear that something lurked under the bed—something that was hungry for the flesh of little boys and would grab whatever it could reach and drag him down into the dark with it…and feast.

His time in Aurora had done little to assuage that absurd feeling, much to his chagrin. The dark _did_ hold terrors, but not the kind he had dreaded as a young boy. The reality was far worse. He had lost good men in the unforgiving desert; courageous, _loyal_ men with families, dreams, and futures. The Crawler had made many widows and orphans on that black night five years ago. But Logan had survived. That was the worst of it. Unlike his men, he had no wife and no children. He had Albion. Only Albion. It was the turning point of his reign. His Albion had needed protection, and if that protection came at the expense of some of its citizens' lives and liberties, it was a price he was willing to pay.

His eyes flitted back and forth beneath his lids as he dreamed, and his scarred, bare chest rose and fell quickly. A light sheen of sweat coated his pale skin. He began to toss and turn, deep in the throes of some nightmare. Sleep promised a great many nightmares these days. He was growing used to that, but it did not make the experience any easier.

He rolled onto his side and the fragrance of the everlasting white rose that lay on his nightstand filled his nose…and the nightmare shifted. It was a _memory_, now, worse than anything his mind could conjure up. Imagination had never been his strong suit. But Logan's memory, for better or worse, was absolutely flawless. He could memorize a book in a single sitting and recite every word without hesitation. He could cast a passing glance at a man's face just once and locate him years later in a crowd. Once, this had been a blessing. Now it was a curse.

The scent of the rose summoned his sister to the front of his mind…

* * *

She was seventeen, still a princess, her hair pulled back in a clumsy sort of plait, and her clothes were similarly plain. She looked like a peasant. Logan was in a black mood. The people of Bowerstone were rallying outside the castle. They shouted demands for freedom, but he knew better: they wanted his head on a spike. He knew he deserved no less; he knew he was a tyrant, but he also knew that their vengeance would have to wait. His task was too important. Albion _depended_ on the strict measures he enacted, even if his people hated him for it. They could never know the truth. There would be panic in the streets, and panic would be the death of all of them long before the Darkness arrived. Panic begat chaos and chaos begat looting, anarchy, desertion, dereliction of duty…in short, total ruin.

_Better to execute a few, _he thought, _than to risk losing all_.

But Rose had to have her say. Rose, champion of the people about whom she knew nothing. Champion of a cause that would destroy everything he had spent the last four years of his life building. Her compassion overrode her loyalty to him—her King, her brother, her own flesh and blood!—and that infuriated him. Loyalty was everything to Logan. His devotion to hiscause and his family knew no bounds.

Her eyes betrayed no fear as she glared at him, but her knees quaked a little. "I've come to stop you," she said resolutely. "You can't kill all those people."

It was the boy's fault, of course. The damned, ignorant boy, _Elliot_, with his pathetically soft nobleman's hands and his foppish clothes. He knew _nothing_, and he had planted this farcical idea in her head—probably to draw her away from her brother and closer to himself. The boy panted after Rose like a dog and followed her everywhere. It was disgusting.

Logan did not shout at them, even as the bile rose in his throat. He never allowed his emotions to overcome him. He was King, and his actions spoke far louder than his voice. He had been playing his match against the Crawler very close to the chest, but that did not give the girl the right to walk into the War Room and tell him how to run _his country_—and with the idiot boy in tow! Even now, he cringed behind her. It was more than Logan could bear.

"Enough! How dare you turn against me," he said through his teeth. "Perhaps you think _you_ should be the one running the Kingdom. Guards! Take my sister and her…_'friend'_…to the Throne Room. We shall settle this matter _officially_."

He could not tell her the truth, but he could do the next best thing: he could give her a taste of the bitter wine he had to drink every day for the sake of the people. That Rose believed she loved them more than he did was the rawest wound he carried. She knew not what she did to him with her gentle, loving words and her artless warmth. Her kind-heartedness cut him like a knife. Her idealism made the lacerations fester.

There was more to it than that, of course. King Logan held a healthy respect for the power of life and death that was his to exercise. He did not want it, but he understood that because he was a monarch, what he wanted for himself was irrelevant. One day—likely after his own execution at the hands of the mob—she would, too. He had to know that she had the steel in her to wield that power and suffer the pain it brought. Rose was his lawful heir. He had to know if she was strong enough to take up that heavy burden and continue his work. If the people killed him before his army was ready for the Crawler, it would fall to her to protect Albion. The power of life and death would be hers, and she would have to face that every day for the rest of her life, just as he did.

He sat in his throne and watched as his guards brought the would-be usurpers before him. The boy tripped and fell on his face_—small wonder there, _Logan thought acidly._ Weak, pathetic, useless, _and_ clumsy. _

"Leave him alone!" Rose snarled at the guards. She bent to help the boy to his feet. "Whatever happens, we'll face it together," she murmured.

Another barb in Logan's heart. Rose heaped betrayal after betrayal upon him and she didn't even know it. _Those words should be in _my_ ear_, he thought angrily_, _a muscle twitching in his jaw. _She is _my_ sister! I am all she has! All she needs! And I need her. She must be strong today. She is all I have. If she fails me…_

She did not. The three ringleaders of the violent mob had pled for their lives. Elliot, much to Logan's surprise, had done the opposite. He chose to die, and she respected his decision and did the right thing, despite the pain it caused her. She sacrificed her closest friend for three strangers.

Logan let out a long breath when his sister stormed out of the Throne Room. She had passed the test. She swore that she would never forgive him, but it was not her forgiveness he needed. He needed proof of her strength.

_Mother was gold, _he thought, drawing a coin from his pocket and rolling it between his fingers, _soft, beautiful, and beyond price. And she spent so much of herself that she grew thinner and thinner until there was nothing left. I am iron. I will break before I bend. But I _will_ inevitably break. Rose may prove to be steel, but she is still a child, and I see nothing of our father in her._

* * *

Duty was a good teacher, and unlike dreams, memories did not a deep sleep make. Logan knew there was someone outside his caravan before he opened his eyes. His hand slid beneath his pillow, but he withdrew it before his fingers could brush the knife hidden there.

"One moment, Garth." It was the smell that gave the old man away. Thunder and spice, the scent of powerful magic, and under this, a perfume with which Logan was all too familiar: the touch of death. The Hero of Will would not be with them for much longer.

Logan stepped into his boots and swung wide the door. The old man bowed his head politely. "Your Highness."

"You've ridden far to find me. What is it you wish?"

"Not so far," Garth replied in his slow, deep voice. He looked up, and Logan was surprised by the gravity he found in the aged Hero's single milky eye. "I came primarily by cullis gate. You are needed at Bowerstone Castle. You…and the Music Box."

Logan's lips tightened. "I see. I will not waste time asking after the particulars, then. My sister recalled you from the Haven, so it must be a matter of import. I will require only a moment to prepare."

He pulled a clean shirt over his head and drew a key from the chain about his neck. This, Rose told him, would be enough to connect him to the Sanctuary, where the relic of the Old Kingdom had been carefully stored. A simple wish would transport him there. He had used it only twice, for his sister.

"She did not summon me," Garth said when Logan had wrapped the chain around their wrists. "Jasper did. Queen Rose is incapable of speaking to anyone…but if my theory is correct, she might be able to hear us."

* * *

The Music Box was cold and heavy in Logan's hands as he took in the scene before him. He felt as though he had woken from one nightmare only to step into another. Rose was lying motionless in her bed, and no amount of shaking or shouting could wake her. He placed the artifact on her bedside table and knelt to hold her hand. It was as cool and smooth as ever, glowing gently, and that gave him a sliver of hope. Whatever had happened to her, she was very much alive.

Beside him, the Auroran high priestess considered the pale body of the young woman she had bound in marriage only hours ago and suppressed a world-weary sigh.

"Well? Can you do anything or can't you?" Reaver demanded at her elbow. Logan had never seen him like this. His clothes were wrinkled and he had torn one sleeve at the shoulder in his apparently violent haste to dress. He was unshaven, and his eyes were wild with fear and anger.

"Bring me white linens, Your Grace," the old woman said at last. "Tack them over the walls in a corner of the room. Place a third sheet on the floor and lay your wife upon this sheet." She turned to Kalin. "Fetch purple flowers for your hearth sister."

"The sacred ones do not blossom here," she whispered. It sounded like a death sentence, and she wrapped her arms around herself, beneath her breasts.

The priestess shook her head. "We must make do with what we have. There is no soul in the flesh of this child. She walks elsewhere. I will try to call her back. Her body might speak as to the needs of her spirit, but we must give it the tools to do so."

"I will go at once." Kalin rushed out of the room, her eyes shimmering with the tears she would not allow herself to shed.

Reaver lifted his wife into his arms, and Logan tore the sheets from the bed and laid them out as the priestess instructed. Together, they lowered her gently to the floor. Garth stood back, his face inscrutable.

"It won't work," he said quietly from his place beside the Music Box. "She is not Auroran. She is of the Old Kingdom."

"She is a hearth sister, Magister Garth," the priestess replied calmly. "There are things stronger and more sacred than blood. She has made the most ancient and powerful of our vows. Her ancestors are now as Auroran as Kalin's are Albion."

"Which is to say, not at all," Garth argued. "This is folly. The deeper she goes, the more difficult it will be to reach her."

She gazed levelly at him. "Your magicks are dangerous and unnatural. Even you do not know how to control them."

"_Enough_!" Reaver shouted between his teeth. He gripped the old woman's arm and spoke directly into her face. "Bring her back! I don't give a damn how you do it, but _do it_."

Kalin burst through the doors, clutching a basket of violet flowers. Her hands were stained with dirt, and she was sweating heavily. "Mother Maya, take these," she panted. "I do not know how, but she had them! They bloom at the feet of her father's statue. It is a miracle from the valley of plenty. He smiles upon her still. There is hope."

Logan felt a small stab of pain in his chest. _Sir Walter Beck_. He heard once more the heavy thud of the rifle butt that had brought the man to his knees before him when his sister—Walter's child—intervened in the War Room. And later, when Logan tested her so brutally in the throne room…

_Your Majesty! Logan, please!_

Logan's own father had never pled for anything. Certainly not for mercy upon his son. Logan squeezed Rose's hand gently. _Avo graced you with a loving father, _he thought. _For that, I am forever grateful_. _Only open your eyes, and I will go to his grave on my knees._

The priestess had taken the basket and immediately begun to grind the petals with a large mortar and pestle. They produced a dark purple paste that filled the air with a heady scent. It made him feel drunk. Across from him, Reaver passed a hand over his eyes and shook his head fiercely.

"What _is_ that?" he demanded, slurring his words a bit.

Mother Maya only worked faster, muttering under her breath in a strange language. Kalin answered for her. "These are the sacred blossoms of Aurora. They are extremely potent, when properly prepared. It is said that they do not really grow at all, but come from the valley of plenty—your afterlife—when our ancestors decree that they are needed. This purple flower is for dreamwalking. Take care not to touch it with your bare skin."

"Why?"

Kalin held out her arm, showing them the blue designs on her skin. They were not running, despite her perspiration. "Because its mark will be upon you forever. And its effects will never fully fade."

Horrified, Reaver made as if to swat the bowl of paste away, but Logan seized his arm. "Don't," he said quietly. "If you love my sister, let them help her."

The two men locked gazes over Rose's body, and finally Reaver looked away and sat back on his heels, wrenching his arm out of Logan's grip. Logan nodded. He was beginning to feel very peculiar. The sweet perfume of the mixture in the bowl made him feel…disconnected, almost as though he were standing outside his own body. The room felt larger. _Much _larger, in fact. How had he been able to reach Reaver? He was so far away… It was as if they were on opposite ends of a ballroom. Or a throne room.

Logan felt his fingers relax. Rose's hand slipped out of his grip and lay open on the white sail she seemed to be resting on. She was very small and very white. He realized that he was having a difficult time seeing her against the fabric.

A heavy hand gripped his shoulder and he came to with a jolt. Garth's single eye was just visible above the sleeve he had brought to his face. "Come," he said. "Cover your mouth and nose and move away."

The old man half-dragged Logan to the far corner of the room, where he tied a handkerchief across his face. Logan blinked blearily. It was getting easier to think, now. The fragrance was not so strong. He tried to stand, but his legs would not hold him. He fell onto the bed, propping himself up with his elbows and straining against the hypnotic power of the dreamwalk mixture.

Reaver was slumped against a wall, watching with glazed eyes as Kalin and Maya carefully dipped Rose's hands into the bowl. Then they moved away from her, pulling Reaver with them. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, for the first time since he had arrived, Rose began to move.

The bowl tipped as she rose smoothly to her knees, spilling plum-colored liquid on the sheet. She lifted her hands. Streaks of purple ran down her arms like dark blood, dripping from her elbows and dotting her clothing. Her eyes were still closed, and she seemed almost to float as she moved toward the sheets Logan had tacked to the walls. She raised both arms high over her head.

_BAM!_

Her fists came crashing down against the wall. A jagged crack appeared in the plaster ceiling. Kalin jumped, but Maya hushed her. "The body seeks release," she explained. "She is trying to find her soul." Then she stood and spoke in a loud, even voice.

"Rose White, daughter of honored Walter and exalted Sparrow, wife of Adrian, brother of Logan, hearth sister of Kalin, protector of Albion…where do you roam?"

Rose cocked her head, but made no move to speak.

"Wake up, Rose," Reaver said. He was reaching for her, despite the potion. He was strong, Logan thought. _Very_ strong. "Rose. Open your eyes and look at me! _Rose!_"

"Why did you leave your body?" Mother Maya asked in that impossibly large, booming voice. It hurt Logan's ears, but his mind was clearing more and more.

Rose unclenched her fists and held out two fingers. They glided over the sheet on the wall in long, slow strokes.

_r, _Logan read.

_ e_

_ d_

Her arm fell to her side. Kalin and Logan exchanged confounded glances. _Red_?

"What is red?" Maya asked.

Rose's hand moved again, more swiftly this time.

_i_, she wrote. _i i i am red i am dead i am_ _she is me she killed them all HELP US_

"_What in the void is this_?" Reaver cried out. Logan realized with some surprise that the swaggering, black-hearted man he had known for years was very nearly hysterical. "Get her out! Get her out! BRING HER BACK!"

"_Maya_!" Garth said sharply. "This is not working. Let me—"

"Silence!" the priestess snapped. "Remember your places, both of you! Do not interfere until all is done."

"I know my place," Reaver said in a low, menacing voice. "If you can't bring her back—if you've done something to her with this ritual of yours—_I will kill you_."

"I believe you. Now, be silent, you fool." Maya looked back up at Rose. "Where have you gone?"

_unlife_

_defeat_

_corruption_

_death_

"Are you alone?"

_ she is here i am here i am everywhere _

Rose paused, rocking a little on her feet. Then she smiled, and Logan let out a breath he had not known he was holding.

_he is here it is him he came he survived he is not dead he is not alive he saved me i need him_

"Who is he?"

_father_, she wrote. _ALL_ _father_

And then: _BLACK_

"What is black?" Maya pressed.

_we _

_we are black_

The priestess looked confused, but Logan felt as if a bucket of ice water had been flung into his face. He knew. He knew exactly what his sister was saying.

"William Black," he said. "She means our ancestor, William Black. But he has been dead for centuries."

_not dead_, Rose wrote furiously. _not alive not dead_

"How can that be possible?" Logan asked. Maya had fallen silent. It seemed that she had decided to defer to him, now. He gripped the bedpost firmly and pulled himself to his feet, ripping the kerchief from his face. He wrapped it around his hand and walked unsteadily toward his sister. "Tell me, Rose. How can you be with William Black?"

He reached her and held her wrist with the wrapped hand. It was such a fragile thing, her wrist. He remembered holding their mother's hand, feeling her pulse growing slower and fainter and knowing that there was not a thing in the world that he could do to save her from what she had done to herself. Rose was so much like her. But he truly believed that she was stronger. Perhaps, immeasurably.

"Show me," he commanded, and he felt the cold iron edge of authority return to his voice. "Show me the way you showed me before, when you came home again."

She turned to him briefly, then moved back to the wall.

_not safe_

_let_

_go_

_let_

_me_

_go_

_let_

_me_

_go_

These words looked more natural than the others, more like the lettering in the note lying on the table in his caravan beside the eternal white rose. He was reaching something within her that the others never could have found.

_LET_

_ME_

_GO_

"Never." Logan seized the hand that was dabbing furiously at the wall and the moment his skin touched hers, he felt an electric current blast from her body and into his. He flew backward and hit the oak chest at the foot of the bed, _hard_. The blow drove the wind from his lungs, and he winced, holding his ribs with one stained hand. Kalin cried out and moved to help him, but he shook his head firmly, shutting his eyes. "Stay…away! Don't touch me!"

Images were flitting through his mind at incomprehensible speed. He saw a vast nothingness, a realm of fluid, senseless shapes and utter silence. His lungs burned with every breath, and there was a sharp, digging pain in his side. He'd broken one of his ribs. He saw a blasted wasteland behind his eyelids, a woman in red with burning wings, a creature in blue and bronze…or was it gold? Old gold.

Rose was writing on the sheets again.

_archons need archons need archons_

Logan got painfully to his feet, holding his side, panting.

_E, _she scrawled in huge, broad strokes.

_V_

_ev ev ev ev ev need her need ev GARTH HELP US _

The old Hero stepped forward with the Music Box. He turned the key.

Nothing happened.

Garth looked searchingly at Logan. Then, slowly, he held the Music Box out in front of him. "It's up to you. You know what will happen if you open it. But it's the only way to get her back."

Logan nodded without expression. He knew. He believed he had prepared himself as well as he could, and it would have to do. He was not afraid for himself. It was the hundreds of others like him that concerned him. Sleeping Heroes, waiting for a song to wake their dormant blood and change their lives. If he woke them—and himself—he would wake her. He knew it as surely as he knew that only he could do it.

He took the Music Box.

_no no no i have to help him have to get him out have to bring him back i will not leave him alone_

"I'm sorry," he murmured. He turned the key.

_Wake up_, he thought. _It is time to wake up._

The song set his blood aflame. He held the relic of the Old Kingdom tightly to his chest and felt his heart hammering against it. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't smell the fragrance of the Auroran blooms or the stench of his own fear. His blind eyes rolled and burned in their sockets. He was dimly aware that he was screaming. He felt the broken bone in his side slide painfully back into place. Strength and heat coursed through his throbbing veins. He gripped the Music Box harder and felt the key snap off under the force of his thumb. His free hand caught it easily before it could hit the floor.

He let the song burn through his body and mind like a fever. He was mastering it, now. He could do this. He could control the fire because there was no other choice open to him. There was nothing in the world that Logan could not do once he had determined that he had to do it.

He felt the sting of sweat in his eyes and blinked it away. When he did, he saw his sister's face, her eyes like raw amber behind a sheath of tears as she stared up at him.

"Logan?" she whispered tremulously.

Shivering, he let the Music Box fall from his hands with a loud clatter and knelt beside her, holding her hands. "I'm here."

"Logan?" she said again. It seemed all she was capable of. She was in shock. She knew what he had done.

He shook his pounding head. "You're home, Rose. That is all that matters now. We will face the rest when the time comes."

And so they would. There was no choice, now. It was done.

He was awake.


End file.
